The Girl Who Would Be King(61)

“We all have choices, Lola.”

“Sure, sure. I make choices, everyday I make choices, but ultimately, my destiny is being guided by something else, something that, in the end, I don’t think I get to say one goddamn thing about.”

“Are you talking about God?” Liz furrows her brow at me.

“No. Well, I mean I guess I could be. It doesn’t feel like God though. It’s just a feeling. A feeling that I’m different and that I’m supposed to be doing something with it…and that I don’t have much choice about it.”

“What are you supposed to be doing?”

“Jesus, if I knew that I wouldn’t be here, Liz. I know I’m supposed to be doing something, but there’s just nothing to point me in the right direction. I’m hoping you and your big brain can help me with that part.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you, Lola,” Liz pulls her glasses down a bit and peers at me over them, as if seeing me with her naked eye will somehow clear up her confusion.

“It’s like…it’s like I’m a missile with a nuclear warhead…just waiting to go off…but there’s nobody to point me at anything. And I’m just this weapon built for destruction, you know…but I don’t have the brain that can point me to a target. I’m just the weapon, and without the additional information, the codes or location or whatever, well I just sit on the ground impotent. I mean you might as well hang dirty laundry on me.”

“Lola, I’m afraid I’m even more confused now…”

“It’s like, at least if I was a heat-seeking missile I’d have a chance, you know, because at least I’d be heat-seeking. Sure, I’d probably still need a little help, but I’d be better off than before at least.”

“Lola…”

“Follow the analogy, Liz…or metaphor…or whatever! I’m a weapon primed for destruction, but I needed to get some crucial details from Delia, and now it’s too freaking late, and so I’m running around bumping into shit without any clue about what the hell I’m supposed to be doing.”

“Okay, okay, I see what you mean.” Liz raises her hands up a little bit palms down, making a gesture intended to calm me. It doesn’t work. I’m annoyed.

“Jeez,” I get up and head for the door, pissed that I had to explain it to her in tiny baby bites. I mean, I’m pretty impressed with my analogy, especially considering my tenth grade education, but the fact that she can’t follow me is frustrating.

“Lola, where are you going?”

“I gotta go.”

“Okay, will you be coming back?”

“I don’t know. Probably.” I walk out the door, slamming it a little too hard, and cutting Jan a withering look.



°

It happens so fast with us. Not like I had briefly tried to imagine, awkward dates and first kisses, and ages before anyone really felt anything real. Instead, he becomes my whole world instantly. And though it’s strange and surreal and maybe not how it’s supposed to go, all I can think is how lucky I’ve been to find him. I wonder if everyone gets this lucky, but maybe just once, and maybe sometimes, it doesn’t last.

I hope it lasts; already, I can’t remember what my life was like before him.

And today, I had this great idea that I should cook dinner for Clark at his apartment, as if me doing that will solidify, in my own mind, that I’m good enough for him, that I can take care of him and be a great girlfriend, that we can have a totally normal life.

Worst. Idea. Ever.

I don’t know what I was thinking. Not only can I not cook, but I don’t even know how to grocery shop. I’ve been wandering around this grocery store for 45 minutes already, with a scribbled list in hand for some recipes I found in a cookbook at the bookstore. I have exactly two things in my basket, toilet paper and Cheetos, neither of which are on the list and the latter of which I broke into ten minutes ago and have been nervously gnawing on ever since. I’ve got Cheeto dust on my jeans and now on all three bundles of asparagus that I’ve been staring at for six solid minutes.

And, I have no earthly idea how to pick good asparagus.

I wish my powers were good for things like picking out asparagus. Is there a way to divine where the asparagus came from? Why are some of them thick and some thin, and over there, there’s white ones. How will they taste? Do they all taste different? Which are the freshest? Oh my god, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

A woman accidentally elbows me as she reaches for her own bundle of asparagus. “Sorry,” I mumble edging myself out of the way a little and eyeing the ones she picks up. How does she know?! I give up and put all three bundles in the basket with my Cheetos and toilet paper.